“Why not?” I plead.
“I have ten years of dance under my belt and a natural sex appeal I can’t turn off if I try. I enjoy dancing for money. I enjoy getting guys excited. I also enjoy learning how to make absolutely any song sexy. It’s a fun challenge. I swear I can dance to “Godzilla” by Blue Oyster Cult and make guys get hard the next time they see their grandkid’s toy dinosaur,” Emma explains, weirdly proud of herself.
“You have a gift,” I admit.
“Or “Flash Gordon” by Queen!” she blurts out with a creative twitch in her eye.
“Stick to the classics,” I propose.
“I don’t like ACDC that much,” Emma shrugs.
“Blasphemy!” I claim.
“Sharp Dressed Man by ZZ Top and Stronger by Kanye West are my next songs this hour. I dance with Mercedes over there to the Kanye song,” Emma lets me know.
“Do I have to pay to talk to you in between?” I ask with a snarky tone.
“What’s your problem?” Emma asks.
“You don’t see that I don’t like your job?” I exclaim.
Emma’s eyes change from annoyed but sympathetic to destructive.
“I like it. I make good money. I get to dance while I still can. I don’t have a problem, so why do you?” Emma declares.
“You think we fuck, and I suddenly care what you think or something?” Emma screams at me. “Well, I don’t care what you think about my career, and I won’t have anyone making me feel bad about my life. How does it affect you; you cock sucking strip club bum! What makes you different from anyone else here?”
The outburst hits me in my core. I don’t want to fight or cry in front of her, so I get up and leave without saying anything. Before I exit, I turn around to see her all smiles while talking to a customer.
When I get home, I wrestle with my guilt in bed, unable to sleep.
“Sorry,” I text her with a foot-in-mouth emoji.
I stare at my phone for about an hour but don’t get a response.
She probably has the crowd going wild again, and I want to watch it and support her. I rub my dick to my mental image of her on stage but can’t finish and just mentally attack myself until I fall asleep.